


The Fortnight

by Elizabeth



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: And Romance, Bathing/Washing, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Oblivious Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Oh yeah this is happening, Omg they were quarantined, Pining, Quarantine, also because why not:, dirty books, horseplay, no graphic depictions of illness, only brief references, the fluffiest plague fic i could write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:33:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23165533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elizabeth/pseuds/Elizabeth
Summary: A plague is ravaging the Northern Kingdoms. First Oxenfurt is locked down, and then Novigrad. Geralt is immune, but Jaskier isn't.Rosemary and Thyme is a pretty nice place to spend a fortnight, but it's still a long time to spend with just one person--even if that person is your best friend.A lot can happen in two weeks.Excerpt:Jaskier sits across the room, plucking at his lute and jotting down rhymes. “You think it’s too soon to write a plague ballad?” he asks.“Mm. Probably.”“I’ll just write it and save it for next month.”“People living through a plague won’t want stories about a plague.”“They will if there’s a love story.”Uses game lore in addition to the show, but will make sense regardless.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 153
Kudos: 829
Collections: Lock Down Fest





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be crack, but then feelings happened.
> 
> I don't own these characters or profit; please don't copy my work or anything outside AO3.

With an annoyed huff, Jaskier leans back in his chair and stretches his legs. A worried frown crosses his face, then vanishes. He scratches a speck of dirt from his jacquard doublet, leans forward again, and fills his crystal goblet to the brim. His eyes flit to Geralt—stern posture, glower, arms over chest—and back toward the unexpected visitors. “The hierarch,” Jaskier says, deliberate and slow, “can kiss—” 

“ _Jaskier_ ,” Geralt warns.

The guards shift, armor clanking. One grips his sword pommel, Geralt notices. Another squeezes his spear. “Hierarch Hemmelfart has made this proclamation,” the captain states, ignoring Jaskier’s snort. “You will be expected to comply.” He leads his men out without waiting for a response. The door swings closed with a boom, resonant and ominous in the near-empty hall.

Jaskier seems to shake himself. He looks around Rosemary and Thyme. Only a few patrons lounge in the periphery. A pair of his employees wipe down the bar. “This is ridiculous.”

“I received a letter from Shani two days ago. The threat may be more real than it seems.”

“The plague has reached Oxenfurt?” The worry returns, and Jaskier’s brow creases. He removes his hat and tosses it on the table.

“It was there first. She says they’ve had to lock down the students to keep it from spreading.”

“Well that’s bloody terrifying.” Jaskier rakes his fingers through his hair in a show of nonchalance, as if he is far from concerned. Geralt watches him take a long draw from his glass. “But you know the way students _mix_ , Geralt.” He waggles an eyebrow. “We’re quite safe—”

“Students?” Geralt snorts. “You own a brothel.”

“Rosemary and Thyme is _not_ a brothel.”

“Hm.”

“It is a cabaret.”

“Hm.”

“An establishment for Novigrad’s most refined—”

“I can think of few _worse_ places to be during a plague outbreak.”

“First of all, it isn’t a plague. Second of all, my tavern is spotless. Clean as the proverbial whistle.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Jaskier groans. “Ohh I know, _I know_ , Geralt.” He rubs his face with his hands, bites his lip, hard, and curses to himself. “OUT,” he yells. He stands and looks to the remaining guests and the maids. “Everyone out. The bloody _hierarch_ —may the pox find him—has put us under _quarantine_.”

The guests shuffle out in a drunken torpor. The maids finish their work before gathering their things. “He can’t really expect all of Novigrad to shut down, can he?” asks the younger. She’s waifish and pale, and Geralt thinks she would barely survive a cough, let alone whatever this plague is. Shani says it causes fevers and chills, with bile and any number of additional unpleasantries.

Jaskier fixes her with a warm smile, filial and kind. “I’m sure the pompous clown thinks Novigrad will do anything he says, so long as he threatens to send the Firesworn after them.” He hands her a few coins. “Buy food on the way home, both of you, before they close the market.”

They bob their heads in thanks and rush out into the street. Jaskier bolts the door behind them. “It’s for the best,” Geralt tells him. “You’d have to burn the bedding if it came here.”

“They want us locked in for a fortnight, Geralt. No business for _fourteen nights_.”

“I heard.”

“Meanwhile, the hierarch is sure to go on about how this is some sign the Eternal Fire is angry about mages or other nonsense.”

“Hm,” Geralt agrees.

“Fuel for his xenophobic crusaders—” he stops himself, blinks a few times, and shakes his head. He fixes Geralt with a carefree smile. “Never mind that, Geralt. I’m sure that, as always, he has only our best interest in mind.”

Geralt snorts.

“How long has this been in Oxenfurt, anyway?”

“Shani wrote over a week ago, and they were beginning their own quarantine then.”

“Ah, so we aren’t behind at all, that's good.”

With an amused sniff, Geralt sits at the long table. “Not at all.”

Jaskier crosses the room and sits across from him. “So. How do you plan to spend the unexpected holiday?”

“I am immune to plagues.”

Jaskier sighs. “I know.” His eyes casually track over Geralt. “You’re immune to everything.”

“Not everything.”

“Everything important.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing. So you’re leaving?”

“I could.”

“The city is on lockdown, they said. Guards at the gates.”

“Sewers.”

Jaskier makes a horrified face. “Somehow I knew you would say that. Is there no better way?”

“They’ll have guards at the docks.”

“You could fight them.”

“I’m keeping a low profile.”

Jaskier’s eyes find his armor, his swords, his long white hair. “Yes, you are the very pinnacle of subtlety.”

“Now what does _that_ mean?”

“Geralt, literally nothing about you is ever low profile.”

“Says the man in the sparkly jacket.”

“You like it?” Jaskier’s eyes light up. “I wondered if you’d notice. My tailor bought this thread from a Zerrikanian trader.”

“Hm.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Regardless… There’s no need to slink off through the sewers, you know.”

Geralt tilts his head in question, watching Jaskier’s eyes shift. “Why?”

“I just mean, if everyone in Novigrad is just now entering a quarantine, but Oxenfurt has been for at least a week, then all of Redania is probably in some sort of plague-nightmare-dreamscape. Do you really want to go out in that?”

Geralt leans back in his own chair, now, and studies Jaskier as he resists eye contact. His fingers, Geralt notices, are nervous. _He’s scared_ , Geralt realizes. His mouth curves up in a small smile.

“I mean, even if you can’t _catch_ a plague—everyone will be sick, so there’s no one to keep you company. While I…”

“While you what?”

“I am very fine company, you know.”

“Mm.

“I am. And who wouldn’t want to spend a quarantine with their very best friend and closest confidant?”

Geralt sighs. He can think of a few things he’d rather do than spend a fortnight with Dandelion, like spend a fortnight in Yen’s bed. Or Triss’ bed. He resists making a face because those thoughts probably demonstrate why neither scenario is likely anytime soon. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out his Gwent deck. “I want the good wine.”

Jaskier’s grin is so broad it looks painful. Geralt ignores the way his chest swells as he realizes how happy he’s made him. “Then we better go upstairs,” Jaskier says. “The finest vintages are in my private collection.”

The truth is, Rosemary and Thyme is the perfect place to be quarantined. The kitchen is stocked, and the bar is crammed. There are nearly enough rooms for Geralt to have a different bed every night. But more importantly, his friend’s apartment is as eclectic as his personality. It is easy to forget sometimes that in addition to being a peacock, Jaskier is educated, well-traveled, and successful. Those traits, when added to his artistic nature, have resulted in a rather broad collection of trinkets and oddities, as well as a large library containing some of the more colorful books Geralt has come across. He closes one quickly on the third day, as Jaskier comes to invite him to dinner. “Let me guess: beans and pork,” Geralt muses. He turns back from the end table and faces his host.

“No, I’ve outdone myself tonight. Tonight, we have beef!”

“Is it any good?”

“I think so.”

“Hm. Doubtful.”

“Well you said it was my turn.”

“You have a full larder and all you can make are beans and boiled meat.”

“Not true. I can poach eggs.” Jaskier steps close. “What are you reading?”

“Nothing.” Geralt stacks a few other books on the one he was holding.

“Is that…” Jaskier reaches for the books, and Geralt pushes his hand away.

“It’s nothing.”

“Let me see!”

“No.” Geralt shoves the books to the side. Jaskier narrows his eyes and then lunges for it. Geralt’s reflexes are far superior, however, and he leans in his chair to move the stack further. Jaskier is committed, however, and he follows. He throws himself across Geralt in pursuit of the book.

“W-whoa!” Jaskier’s foot slips as he leans. He topples onto Geralt, knee catching on the seat by his hip. His hand grips Geralt’s shoulder, and his other leg swings out. Geralt catches him by the waist and steadies him. “Oops.” Jaskier’s face turns pink with mirth and embarrassment. His other knee comes to rest beside Geralt’s other hip.

Geralt realizes he’s gripping him harder than necessary, given that he isn’t going to fall and break an arm from this height. Jaskier’s trousers are plain and grey today, but the fabric is soft beneath Geralt’s fingertips. It makes a rasping sound as his calloused skin slides against it.

Jaskier must have panicked: his mouth has dropped open as he catches his breath. Geralt watches it open further, then close before he licks his lips and grins. Only then does Geralt realizes his free hand has gripped the book. “Jaskier!” He bats at it, but Jaskier has already darted away. “Get back here!”

“What do we have here?” Jaskier calls as he runs out of the room.

Geralt sprints after him, boots heavy in the corridor. _How the devil is Dandelion this fast?_ he wonders. _It must be years of running from cuckolded husbands_. He watches Jaskier slide sideways down the banister, flipping the book open.

His voice has switched to a theatrical register when Geralt reaches him. “A-ha! The concupiscent capers of Currian Conk! That scamp.”

“Jaskier!”

“I met him once, at the academy. Well, a few times, but only one that bears remembering. My question is which _part_ of the book you were—” Jaskier stops. He looks at the page he flipped to, and then back to Geralt. He closes the book and clears his throat. “I forgot about some of this one, if I’m honest.” He fixes Geralt with a long, assessing look. “How far had you got?”

Geralt looks away. “You said there was food.”

The beef, it turns out, is not entirely flavorless. The potatoes and carrots even have salt. The wine, once again, is from Jaskier’s private collection. Geralt lets it roll across his tongue. It is dry and robust, with hints of tobacco and cherry. Since closing the book, Jaskier has had a faraway look and restless eyes. Geralt tries to ignore it and enjoy his food. Jaskier doesn’t need to know he had reached the point of the book where Currian seduces a countess _and_ an earl. He doesn’t need to know how the story had caught Geralt unaware, how it had stolen his breath along with his composure.

Geralt ignores that, but he wonders why the memory of the book has shut Jaskier up like this. He wonders what he means, _he met him at the academy_. Was he a part of one of these… _whatever_ capers? They eat in silence.

Later, Geralt sits in Jaskier’s apartment. They have moved his two best armchairs to the hearth and lit a roaring fire to fight the spring chill. Geralt wonders if it will frost. A frost may kill buds, hurting the orchards and farms and the food supply. Less food means more monsters, both beasts and men, hungry and unable to find sustenance. Late frosts are dangerous. Outside the streets are quiet. He would shiver, were he a different man.

Jaskier stares into the fire. He’s drinking a tawny port from Toussaint, and his lips are wet. His cheeks are flushed again, and Geralt watches his fingertips brush at his thighs. “You probably wish you’d kept someone else with you, now.”

Jaskier stares at him. “No. Do you? Don’t answer that. I know. You wish you were with Yennefer, of course.”

“Trapped for two weeks with Yen? No one would survive that. Besides, she’d never stay quarantined. We’d both be immune.”

Jaskier sighs. “I know.”

“I’m… Hm.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” _I’m not sorry I’m here._

“We’ve been friends a long time, Geralt.”

“I know.”

“And I know you’re not saying something.”

“Mm. That’s fine.”

“Now Currian Conk, on the other hand, couldn’t keep his gob shut. That’s why he wrote that damn book.”

Geralt closes his eyes. He looks back at Jaskier. “You want to tell me, so do.”

“I don’t want to tell you anything.”

Geralt just lifts an eyebrow.

Jaskier smiles like a cat who caught the canary. “A gentleman never tells.”

Geralt ignores the prickling feeling, the way his stomach turns over. _It’s because I don’t want to hear about Jaskier’s escapades_. He takes a drink from his own glass. He’ll finish the book tomorrow.

Day seven is the hardest. They avoid each other. Geralt sits at an upper window and looks out at the city. It’s eerily empty. The streets are quiet. Detritus blows through the abandoned squares. In the distance, he can hear crows.

He ends up finishing the book on day ten. His beard has thickened, he realizes, as he pages through the book and scratches at it. He probably needs a bath. Jaskier sits across the room, plucking at his lute and jotting down rhymes. “You think it’s too soon to write a plague ballad?” he asks.

“Mm. Probably.”

“I’ll just write it and save it for next month.”

“People living through a plague won’t want stories about a plague.”

“They will if there’s a love story.”

Geralt shakes his head and returns to the book. Currian and the earl are in a boat together between islands in Skellige. They’ve been on the boat for four days—a totally unrealistic timeline, in Geralt’s estimation. He could swim the length of Skellige faster than that.

Currian has just recovered from seasickness, and the earl is mopping his brow with a wet cloth when they tumble into bed together. Geralt shifts in his chair. The countess is not in this scene; he narrows his eyes and keeps reading.

They kiss first. Disgusting, given the man was just heaving into a bucket.

The earl’s shirt comes open, revealing a long, lean body. Geralt shifts again. He peeks over at Jaskier. He continues to strum the lute strings, mouthing words and humming.

 _His rose-coloured lips met the thrust of my naked chest and stole my breath_. Geralt rolls his eyes.

“What rhymes with vomit?”

“Grommet.”

“Of course. Thank you, Geralt.” He dips his quill.

 _My member swelled and burst free of my lacings._ Geralt rolls his eyes harder. “Unlikely,” he murmurs. He flips a few pages. The scene must be long. _His body went rigid beneath my grasp. The night was filled with the wet noises of mutual pleasure as I thrust—_ Geralt closes the book on his lap. He looks up and sees Jaskier lean back, eyes closed. Geralt has never understood the bard's fascination with necks, but he can’t drag his eyes away from the curve of his Adam’s apple and the shadow of his collar bone. A soft, teasing smile plays across Jaskier’s lips as if his imagination or memory is at work. His beard is growing in, too, and it reminds Geralt of their last journey together, to the edge of the Northern Kingdoms. Jaskier had gotten himself in trouble again, and it had grown in completely by the time Geralt found him.

Jaskier’s lips part, then, and he opens his eyes and looks directly at Geralt as if he knows he’ll find him looking back. Jaskier’s eyes are just on the line between grey and blue in this light, and Geralt cannot look away for a long time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two summary: pining, reading, and balcony singing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter count went from two to three, so this will be a bit longer than originally planned. Blame social distancing for my lengthening it. Also blame Geralt for being stubborn.

A storm comes on the tenth night.

Geralt kneels on the bed in Jaskier’s best guest room, meditating. He clears his mind and listens to the rain hit the roof tiles. He hears it collect in the gutters and fill the rain barrels and cisterns. The curtains are thick, and the walls are covered with tapestries. Most of the furnishings predate Jaskier’s appointment as proprietor of the establishment, so they are designed to muffle and mute. The room is finished in scarlet and gold, and Geralt lets himself enjoy the lingering scent of incense and herb. Few guests are allowed here, nowadays. Geralt knows Jaskier sleeps on the other side of the wall.

Two children are playing in the rain a few blocks away. The night is dark; their parents are probably unaware—if they have any. By now, most of Novigrad will need to replenish their water and food. The city will be living on rotgut and salt pork.

Most of Novigrad will not have Sansretour Chardonnay for the day and Fiorano for the night. Most of Novigrad has never heard those names.

Geralt pulls himself back into meditation. He stares at the merry fire crackling across the room, and then closes his eyes. He clears his mind.

Eyes drift through his consciousness. He tries to avoid fixating on them, but they persist: grey or blue or a silver in between. A face, sensitive yet defiant.

A sound disturbs him further. In the next room, a bed creaks. Jaskier sighs in his sleep, murmuring.

They have plenty, here, unlike most of the city. _Somewhere, nearby, a door slams._ _A dog barks at the thunder. Rain falls_.

Geralt is immune to this plague. His witcher body will reject pestilence. But Jaskier is an unknown. His body is frail.

 _But is it?_ Geralt wonders. He has journeyed at Geralt’s side to Toussaint, yes, but also to Kovir, and as far south as Nilfgaard. _There’s also the lingering question of his true age_. “Hmm,” Geralt grunts. Jaskier is actually more than hale.

 _Still_. Geralt is happy he is here, safe in his “cabaret,” not contracting whatever bile-producing sickness the hierarch is so afraid of. _Maybe, for once, he’s right to fear_. Geralt hears Jaskier snore, cough, and roll back to his side. He leans back, himself, against the wall that separates them. Meditation forgotten, he closes his eyes and lets himself dream.

He wakes to Jaskier pushing open the windows. Geralt covers his eyes and grumbles, “What the fuck, Jaskier?”

“Smell that fresh air, Geralt. Listen to the birds. It’s new day.”

“It’s a new day and we’re still stuck here.”

“Yes, yes we are.” He saunters to Geralt’s bed and drops down beside him. He runs his hand across the embroidered coverlet. “I never come in this room.”

“Why start now?”

“Because, Geralt, I have already made eggs and sausage, and it’s a good day for a bath.”

“What?”

“A bath. You sit in water and use soap.”

“I know what a bath is.”

“Oh good.”

“I don’t—”

“Don’t say you don’t need one because,” Jaskier looks down. He tugs the blankets to Geralt’s hips and casts a skeptical look at his bare chest. “It looks like you do.” He places his hand on Geralt’s skin, toying with his chest hair. “And the masculine smell suits you, but it reaches a point…”

Geralt isn’t certain if Jaskier realizes he’s caressing his chest. He seems to do it absently, tracing a finger along a pale scar and across the ridge of his abdomen. It isn’t abnormal; Jaskier has never been shy with touching.

What _is_ abnormal is the way Jaskier’s fingertips seem to send pulses of current through Geralt’s body. His skin is far from sensitive, yet Jaskier’s fingers strike at his nerves like lute strings, and the vibrations hum within Geralt.

Geralt grabs Jaskier’s wrist and stops him. He pushes it aside and sits up. “Hmm.”

“I’m glad you agree.”

They’re both clean and shaven by midday. Jaskier thrusts clean trousers at Geralt as he towels off. “What’s this?”

“Trousers.” Jaskier is turned away, and his voice is strained.

“What’s wrong? And I’m not wearing these.”

“They’re clean. I’m sending your things to my laundress.”

“How?”

“I’ll send someone. People.”

“Who?”

“My people! As soon as they’re back.”

“I’m leaving as soon as they’re back.”

“Oh.”

“Jaskier…”

“Where will you go this time?”

“First, Vizima.”

“Ah, Vizima. Because one can never have enough quarantines.”

“That was a long time ago. And I was able—”

“I know. It’s the emperor, right? Are you—”

“Dandelion, you know I have to keep moving. Working.”

Jaskier swallows. He nods. He presses his lips together and walks away.

Geralt pulls on the trousers. They’re soft and smell of lavender. He feels something significant just happened, and he missed it. He isn’t sure what it was.

The twelfth night is warmer. Geralt stands at the corner balcony and looks across the city. It’s still eerily tranquil, but the populace is growing restless. He hears the chatter of more children. Voices whisper near the public wells. In the distance, he can hear dice roll near the city gates.

Jaskier appears beside him. His mouth is curled into a smile Geralt knows means something is about to happen. It’s full of mischief and mirth, and Geralt feels a tightening in his stomach. He tells himself it’s a learned protective response: if Jaskier misbehaves, he will inevitably need rescued.

But he’s lying. This is a different feeling. It is familiar to him, but he shakes any awareness of it off. Jaskier stands close. His hair is growing long again. It curls over the collar of his shirt. Geralt can see chest hair where it opens at his neck. Soft lamplight wraps him in a halo, and the stars, above, are bright. Geralt realizes Jaskier is holding his lute. He clears his throat, strums a chord, and starts singing.

A Redanian folk song is first. Geralt has heard it, of course, but never really paid attention to the words. As windows and shutters begin to open around them, Jaskier sings louder, and Geralt _listens_ :

_I would my love were nearer_

_I would the nights ne’er long_

_For in my arms he’d sooner be_

_Where my true love belongs._

Geralt sucks in a breath, and Jaskier’s eyes meet his. He continues.

_The reddest rose, the petal_

_Has fallen to the ground_

_For since my love was taken_

_It withered and turned brown._

_I will not let my love be lost_

_I’ll find her ere the snow._

_I’ll bring her back and keep her near_

_And never let him go._

Jaskier ends the song with a light laugh, and applause rings out from the buildings around them. “Another!” a woman shouts. Geralt grips the handrail and forces himself to take steadying breaths.

“Encore!”

Jaskier immediately begins “Her Sweet Kiss.” It’s safer, this song. A femme fatale—Geralt knows a few. Jaskier, he’d wager, does too. The audience is delighted. They sing along on the chorus, and soon it sounds as if half the city has joined in.

Jaskier moves to an old Skelligan sea shanty, and then to a drinking song about a barmaid named Clementine.

“Sing the witcher song!” yells a man who sounds as if he has had a bit too much of the rotgut.

Geralt groans. “Fuck.”

Jaskier’s laugh resembles a giggle more than anything. “Shall I, Geralt?”

“Witcher song!!!” echoes a young woman. Geralt can hear her laughing with her friends—a merry bunch for a citywide emergency.

“O-oh, if you absolutely insist,” Jaskier calls. He turns to Geralt and shrugs. “There’s nothing else to be done.” When he begins, a chorus of applause echoes through the streets, and half the audience seems to sing along.

As much as Geralt likes to tease Jaskier about his warbling, he is far more talented than his neighbors. Jaskier thrives on this. Geralt can almost see him absorbing the public’s goodwill like a hungry incubus.

Afterward, Jaskier is loose and jovial like he’s had too much to drink. He jumps up onto the rail and bows, and Geralt has to hold him in place to prevent him from smashing his head on the flagstones below. Jaskier’s laugh resonates through the night, and he swings around a timber post before alighting before Geralt, smile broad. He clutches his lute with one hand and tugs at Geralt with the other. “Come,” he whispers, leading him back inside. “Come in and tell me a story.”

“Stories are your trade, bard.”

“Tell me a story from long ago—before I met you.”

Geralt lets himself be drug across the room. Jaskier deposits him on a thick rug by the fire. “It’s too warm for this.”

“Nonsense! Tell me a story.”

Geralt searches his mind for anything appropriate. “What kind of story?”

“Tell me a story like Currian Conk.”

Geralt feels his face heat. “I don’t know any stories like that.”

Jaskier slumps down beside him with a carafe and two goblets. “Geralt, your exploits are legendary.” He fills the glasses and hands one to Geralt, leaning in. “I don’t believe you,” he whispers.

“I have never been seasick.”

Jaskier’s smile widens. “I knew you finished it.” Geralt groans. “And I doubt Currian has been seasick, either. He probably pretended to seduce the earl. He’s like that.”

“You think I have stories like this?”

“Oh Geralt.” Jaskier leans his head against Geralt’s shoulder. “No, you’d never have to pretend to seduce anyone.”

“The fuck does that mean?”

Jaskier sighs. “Nothing.” He rubs his cheek against Geralt’s shirt a few times, and then sits back up. Geralt’s arm tingles. “Come, let’s play Gwent. I know I can beat you this time.”

“Not with your deck, you can’t.”

Jaskier smirks. “Try me.”

When Geralt wakes on the thirteenth morning, he realizes he isn’t in Jaskier’s guest bed. This bed is canopied, and if anything, it’s even more luxurious. He looks around, confused.

Jaskier sits nearby at a writing desk, fiercely scribbling.

“Hm,” Geralt greets him.

“Geralt!” Jaskier jumps. He hastily scatters pounce on the ink and shoves the papers into a stack, pushing them aside.

“Where am I?”

It’s obvious, actually. He’s in Dandelion’s bed. Jaskier lets out a nervous laugh. “Remember? We thought this would be easier, given the lateness of the hour and how far into your cups you were.”

“Hm.” It isn’t the first night they’ve overindulged together—this week, even—but it feels different somehow.

Jaskier comes and sits beside him, like he did the morning before. This time, however, it’s _his_ bed. “I’ve told you I have the best bed in all of the Northern Kingdoms. Now you know I wasn’t lying.” He grins as if nothing is amiss. “Now why don’t you stay there while I go scrounge up some food.” He places his hand on Geralt’s chest and pushes him back against the bedding.

It isn’t until he’s gone that Geralt realizes he’s mostly nude and didn’t ask where Jaskier slept. _I would remember if something happened_ , he thinks. And then he frantically wonders what he thinks could possibly happen.

After luncheon, Geralt finds himself back in Jaskier’s bedroom. This time, it’s to see his “private library.” The idea is objectively terrible, but Geralt allows himself to be persuaded. The shelves are overstuffed with all manner of books, scrolls, and letters. Geralt flips through shelf after shelf, and Jaskier stands beside him.

He’s close. Geralt tries to remember if Jaskier always stands this close. He tries to remember if he has always smelled like sandalwood and vanilla. Jaskier is warm, and when he presses his hip against, Geralt’s, Geralt doesn’t pull away. There’s no reason to. He feels Jaskier’s hand brush against his lower back, and it makes no sense, but his body shudders. He thinks he should pull away, but he doesn’t want to.

“You know,” Jaskier whispers, “if you liked the other, you may like these.” His voice is low and his mouth is close and hot on Geralt’s ear. He slides out a thin, leather-bound copy. The title page reads _The Amorous Adventures of Auguste Abernathy_.

“Why do all these books have similar titles?” Geralt grumbles.

Jaskier shrugs. “So the reader knows what he’s getting.”

“He?” Geralt realizes his voice has gone rough—rougher than usual—and he has to force himself to not clear it. In the quiet, he thinks he can hear Jaskier’s body move. _He quivered_ , Geralt thinks. He forces the thought to retreat to somewhere in the back corner of his mind.

“I meant the reader, Geralt.” His breath is still hot. “What were you thinking of?” He steps away and Geralt lets out a breath he hadn’t meant to hold.

Geralt finds himself on a velvet chaise lounge. He stretches. It’s one of the more decadent ways he’s spent an afternoon in recent memory. He’s ten pages in when Jaskier dramatically drapes himself over the back, pouting. “This is _my_ reading chair.” He’s carrying a nearly-identical book. It looks well-handled.

“Hm.” Geralt pulls up his legs, so Jaskier can sit at the end.

Geralt isn’t sure how they end up there, but he isn’t halfway through the story before he realizes he’s reclined on the chaise, legs spread, with Jaskier leaning back between them. He’s using Jaskier’s shoulders as a book stand, while Jaskier—between fidgeting and stretching like a cat—holds his book on his knees.

 _This is the most comfortable place to read in this godforsaken building_ , Geralt thinks. _It’s fine._

And it is fine, for a while.

Abernathy is a superior writer, so it makes sense this volume is in Jaskier’s private collection. He isn’t a fop, like Currian. He’s a spy for some shady character, who is clearly a barely-concealed avatar of Sigismund Dijkstra.

He is a spy currently seducing information out of a visiting prince. Geralt instinctively shifts his legs, which allows Jaskier to sink back further. He rocks back and forth as if burrowing himself in. Geralt continues to read. _I traced my fingers along the slim length of his neck and watched his body twitch in response._

Just behind the pages is Jaskier’s neck. Geralt wouldn’t call it slim, and he would have to push the hair aside to see it and decide how to describe it. He pulls the book aside and holds it in one hand. Jaskier, in response, sinks back even further. This angle is better, Geralt decides. He can look down and see Jaskier’s throat, as well as exposed chest where his shirt is left unbuttoned. _It would be better_ , Geralt thinks, _if the shirt were completely unbuttoned._ Then he could look his fill and compare it with the book. He reads further.

 _His moans were mere whispers, but they stirred me. I pressed my manhood against him, and he reached down and plucked at my laces_.

It’s the word, _plucked_ , that triggers the image. Geralt has seen Jaskier pluck at his lute strings so many times, the image of his fingers, light and dexterous, is seared into his memory. He cannot help but visualize Jaskier’s fingers plucking at his own laces. The thought, to quote Abernathy, _stirs him_. Geralt feels his body awaken. Muscles tighten below his navel; his legs part, and he licks his lips.

Jaskier, lost in his own book, presses back and makes a soft noise, like a purr. He turns a page, and then his hand trails across Geralt’s thigh. He grips the back.

Geralt tries to stay quiet. He tries to keep his body still, but the blood has left his head. He shifts, again, and the movement pulls Jaskier against him, slides his back against Geralt’s arousal. Jaskier doesn’t make a sound, but his grip tightens on the back of Geralt’s leg.

Geralt looks back at the book. _He tugged at me in quick strokes, desperately seeking my pleasure. I watched, through hooded eyes, as he sank down to his knees and took me in his mouth._

Geralt drops the book. Jaskier twitches, then turns. He doesn’t meet Geralt’s eyes, but he peers at him over his shoulder. “I’ll get it for you, if you want.”

Geralt squeezes his eyes shut. _Best friend_ , Jaskier’s voice echoes in his mind.

“No,” Geralt manages to growl. “I need a drink.”

He isn’t sure, but he thinks he hears Jaskier sigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Balcony singing inspired by the entire nation of Italy. 
> 
> I had to go to the supermarket today and it was nightmarish. We're going to get through this together. Hang in there and stay safe!
> 
> Chapter three will be up in a couple of days!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We all know where this is headed. That's why we're here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I meant to sit on this for a few days, but I can't for a couple reasons.  
> One is that I was listening to the Fansplaining podcast and they said people don't like to read unfinished fic in times of crisis.  
> Another is that your comments are delightful and I'm too hungry for affection to wait.

“One more night,” Jaskier says over dinner. Rosemary and Thyme boasts a robust kitchen, and they started with vegetables in abundance. Now the greens have wilted. Tonight, Geralt has fixed trail food: a roasted hare with rosemary and potatoes. Jaskier has tried his hand and not entirely failed at a babka. It’s only slightly singed, and drizzled with a raspberry liqueur that makes up for any shortcomings.

“Two,” Geralt tells him.

“This one doesn’t count because it’s halfway through.”

“No it isn’t.”

“It is! The evening meal is happening as we speak, Geralt. And it is a fine one. You do have a certain domestic charm, you know. Not all just rugged, good-looking-road-weary-traveler.”

“Hm.”

Jaskier continues to chatter, as usual. Geralt tries to focus, but his mind drifts. He’s on edge, and he assesses their surroundings to ensure they are safe. He hears nothing in the sewers below the building and the street. He hears nothing unusual growling in the imminent dusk. Instead, the city seems to hold its breath in anticipation of impending freedom.

No, the city is as safe as it ever is—despite crime lords, zealots, and witch hunters. And drowners in the sewers. And any number of other beasts, really. “Geralt? You aren’t listening,” Jaskier pouts.

His eyes look very blue tonight. Geralt frowns. As the week has progressed, they’ve grown increasingly casual. The ever-present doublet has long been forgotten in favor of a loose-fitting undershirt. It’s snowy-white for once because it’s fresh from his armoire. At some point since the afternoon, Jaskier has managed to undo half the buttons, unwittingly giving in to Geralt’s earlier desire.

 _Desire_. Geralt pauses at the thought.

“Geralt?”

“Hm?” He focuses on Jaskier, grateful, for once, for the distraction.

“You haven’t heard a thing I’ve said.” It’s warm again, and Jaskier has rolled his sleeves to the elbow, leaving his forearms exposed. They move when he gesticulates with his fingers, and the effect is all skin and hair and fingers so expressive they are articulate, and Geralt wonders if this is what has him unsettled.

He has seen Jaskier’s arms before. He has seen his chest, even. _It’s those damn books_.

“Geralt,” Jaskier whines. “What is it?” He leans forward and props his chin on his fists. He looks up at Geralt through his eyelashes.

 _Definitely blue tonight_. “Everything will be hungry when this ends.”

“Mmm. I’m hungry now.” Jaskier takes a bite, and then washes it down with a gulp. A droplet of wine remains on his lip and Geralt suddenly wonders if the wine tastes different to Jaskier. He’s a poet; does he experience things differently? Some beasts cannot see colour—does taste work the same? He wants to ask but he doesn’t know how without looking like a fool.

Then he remembers it’s _Dandelion_ , who _is_ a fool. “Do poets taste differently than the rest of us?” he asks.

Jaskier is visibly taken aback, then curves his body forward. “Geralt, are you asking because you want to find out?”

“What?”

“If I taste different…”

“I asked if you taste different _ly_. Poets. Do you… Never mind.” He shakes his head and takes a long draw from his goblet.

“Ah.” Jaskier leans back. Geralt thinks he almost looks disappointed, but the look is gone before he can process it and Jaskier answers. “I think we taste the same. I think we experience the same. I think we just _feel_ it differently. It’s an emotional process.”

“Hm.”

“The hard part,” he pronounces with a heavily articulated t, “is expressing it.” Geralt must make a face because Jaskier sighs, then looks around as if thinking how to explain. “The books, right?” Geralt shifts in his seat. “Everyone experiences—okay not everyone, there are definitely some who don’t, but for the sake of generalit—”

“Jaskier.”

“Everyone experiences _lust_. Everyone _desires_.” He gestures with his hand, and Geralt swallows. “I don’t think a poet _desires_ differently. _Want is want_ , right?”

His mouth is dry. He nods. He takes another drink.

“You may feel desire, Geralt, and you may want terribly. But me, I feel desire and I can say, oh, for example, that... you make me burn. I might say your touch is like a feast before a starving man. But those are simple analogies.” He licks his lips. “What I feel, this desire, cannot be expressed without going further.” He leans forward.

Geralt realizes he, too, leans forward. He places his hands on the table. Candles reflect along the lacquer.

Jaskier’s voice has gone quiet. “I should say that I long for you like spring. That when you touch me, I am limitless, an unbroken colt on a broad plateau.” He shakes his head. “I may say that when you leave, the absence is a harbor without boats—no, a sail without wind—and that when you return, not even Chaos itself could contain the rapture in my heart.”

“Chaos does not contain, Chaos is unbound.”

Jaskier sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Ah, fuck Geralt. You may be a poet.”

Geralt rubs his palms on his knees. He watches Jaskier reach beneath the edge of the table and shift. They both take another drink.

“Okay. Then I could say when you look at me, I know only Chaos. That I have dreamt your body until I know your skin, your breath, your blood, and—”

“ _Fuck_. Jaskier.” Geralt stares at him. Jaskier’s chest visibly rises and falls with his breath.

“That’s, uhh, that’s why I’m a poet.” He scratches the back of his neck and shrugs.

They take another drink.

They stand at the guest bedroom door to say goodnight. Jaskier tries to be flippant. “I’m off to the best bed in the house, you know.”

“Mm.”

“I suppose I shouldn’t rub it in. You’ll want to come climb in with me.”

Geralt stares at him. The light is dim in the hall. He thinks Jaskier’s cheeks may be pink, but that could be the wine. Jaskier’s fringe has fallen across his eye, and Geralt reaches up and pushes it aside. He hears Jaskier’s breath hitch as he does it. He hears everything, so it can’t be helped.

Geralt isn’t a fool. He knows what it means. “Mm hmm.”

Jaskier’s mouth opens. His brow furrows in confusion. “Oh,” he says.

Geralt just steps into the guest room and nods a good night.

The fourteenth day begins with Jaskier opening the windows again. Geralt sits up, and Jaskier sits beside him. “Well. This is it.”

“What?”

“The last day. The last night, Geralt. The fortnight.”

“Mm,” Geralt agrees.

“It’s a big day.”

“Why?”

“Because we’ll have guests tomorrow. We should—I should be excited.”

Geralt peers over at him. “Should?”

Jaskier takes a deep breath through his nose, then lets it out. It becomes a yawn. “Yes, I should.” He examines his fingernails. “I have to say, this has been peaceful, hasn’t it?”

Geralt stretches. The bedclothes dip precariously low. Jaskier looks, Geralt notices, and gets an eyeful of hip. He bites his lip, and Geralt fights back a smirk. “It has been.”

“Well, there’s leftover babka for breakfast.”

“Cake for breakfast?”

Jaskier shrugs. “It’s a special day. And then we need to air out the rooms. Another bath to prepare for tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“Because we’ll have so many guests.”

“They’re going to be close enough to smell you?”

“I don’t want them to smell me without getting close.”

“Who’s going to be getting close?”

“No one, Geralt. Well. Maybe. We’ll see.” Jaskier leans his head back against the headboard. “It might be nice to get a little release.”

“Mm.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You said you’re leaving as soon as you’re able. I’ve not forgotten. Where to? Vizima after all?”

Geralt is quiet until Jaskier turns to look at him. “I don’t know.”

The bathtub is spacious because it used to belong to a brothel. Geralt soaks. He knows Jaskier scented the water with herbs. The soap is fine, too. He washes his hair. “They’ll smell this without getting close,” he says.

“What?” Jaskier is across the room, turned away. Geralt has gone first this time, and Jaskier has kept his distance.

“The soap.”

“I know you like that one.”

“Mm.”

Jaskier turns, then makes a face. “Geralt, really. How do you manage on your own? Let me.” He steps around the tub and kneels behind Geralt, and then buries his hands in his hair.

Geralt struggles to stay quiet. _They should write odes to his fingers_ , he thinks. He would never say it out loud. Jaskier lathers his hair, and then he scrubs at his scalp. He digs in with his fingers in circles and long strokes. He massages around the crown, and then starts at the back. He moves to the neck, and Geralt leans his head forward. He can’t help it: he groans.

“ _Yeah_.” Jaskier’s voice is just barely a whisper.

“ _Fuck_.” Geralt echoes the timbre.

Jaskier splays the fingers of one hand across the back of Geralt’s head and grips his neck with the other. He presses his thumb into the ever-tense muscle and rubs; he squeezes his shoulder, then picks up the soap to increase the lather.

Geralt has already done this. He does not say a word.

Jaskier rubs the lather along Geralt’s shoulders, leaning forward. Geralt can feel labored breathing on his wet skin. A hand sneaks over his shoulder to his chest.

Geralt pulls Jaskier into the tub.

Jaskier’s eyes are silver today. They are wide. He looks down, situates himself astride Geralt, and then his eyelids lower. He licks his lips. He opens his mouth to say something, but Geralt leans forward and swallows the words.

Jaskier’s lips mold to his immediately, as if it is only natural. Geralt grips him and presses him close. The undershirt he wears sticks to his skin, and Geralt takes hold of the hem and tugs it off in a mess of lost buttons and torn threads.

Jaskier’s hands are everywhere. He clutches Geralt’s back and grinds his body against him. His lips part, and Geralt meets his tongue with his own.

The kiss is messy. It’s wet and ferocious, and Jaskier pulls back, then bites at Geralt’s jaw. He licks and sucks his way down to his chest, and then pauses. He stares for a moment, and then slowly places his hands on Geralt’s chest. He takes a few breaths, as if steadying himself. “Ah, fuck,” he groans, and then presses his mouth to Geralt’s nipple.

Jaskier, Geralt learns quickly, is merciless. When his hands finally find Geralt’s cock (because Geralt is _not_ a poet and will therefore call it like it is), they tease him. He strokes hard and fast, and then lets up. Geralt shakes and makes noises he cannot control.

He decides he’s had enough. He stands; Jaskier’s eyes go wide. He picks him up and half pulls-half carries him to “the best bed in the house,” tosses him on it, and relieves him of his sodden trousers. Jaskier makes unintelligible sounds in his throat, and Geralt climbs up over him. He holds himself above him and looks into his eyes. He thinks he should say something, and then realize he doesn’t have to. “Hm,” he says instead.

Jaskier grins. He pulls Geralt down onto his body.

Geralt’s mouth explores Jaskier’s body. It decenters him that something so familiar should be so new. It thrills him. Jaskier’s skin has an indescribable flavor that is neither salt nor sweet, but rich and novel, and he wants more. Jaskier stills when Geralt takes him in his hand. His eyes close and his mouth opens. “ _Geralt_ ,” he moans. Geralt pulls his body as he would his own. He watches every reaction. He assesses every sound and motion Jaskier makes. He slows before Jaskier’s body pulls tight.

Instead, Jaskier hands him a stoppered vial. “Please,” he whispers. “I just… I need it, Geralt. Thirteen fucking days—”

Geralt silences him.

He starts slow, and it’s difficult. Thirteen days and thirteen nights have been a slow-boiling pot, and space has run out; he needs to overflow.

He stretches him with his fingers until Jaskier is a writhing, moaning mess. He grips Geralt’s arms and neck and strokes his shoulders and chest. When Geralt presses into him, they kiss. Jaskier lets out a hiss and his body adjusts. He takes it. Geralt pushes in further.

Geralt wants to explode, but he will wait. He would never hurt Jaskier, so he goes slow. He starts with small, shallow strokes, just barely moving his hips. Jaskier’s body blooms. His chest flushes red, and he pants. Geralt feels him relax beneath him. He feels a shiver run through Jaskier’s body. “You like that,” he growls.

“ _Fuck_ , Geralt, mmmn, _yes, I like that._ ”

“Mm.” Geralt grunts with the effort to hold himself back. He watches Jaskier’s legs open further. He sees his cock twitch and drip. “You want more.”

Jaskier nods. “ _Fuck me, Geralt_ , please just—fuck me.”

Geralt complies.

The fourteenth night is spent in Rosemary and Thyme’s best bed.

So is the fifteenth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's that.
> 
> Finally, I'm torn between saying something direct and not saying anything, so feel free to skip this if you don't want to think about it. I just feel I should say something so it doesn't seem like I'm making light of everything.
> 
> I hope you are well. I hope your loved ones are well. I hope this story, no matter what the circumstances, can offer a little fluff and escapism. And I hope that if you can, you'll help others.  
> Really, I love you (yes you reading this) so much, and I'm sending all of that love to you.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd absolutely love to know your thoughts!  
> It's a lonely time for a lot of us, so comments and conversation are even more appreciated!


End file.
